


Small Things and Unremembering

by constantly_disoriented



Series: Memories [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Minor Angst, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, bucky trained the girls in the red room, death mention, everyone lives in the tower, i think i saw her somewhere, idk - Freeform, im not sure if viktoriya is actually a canon character, no one we know dies just a random dude from the red room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantly_disoriented/pseuds/constantly_disoriented
Summary: James is a puzzle of memories that he has to put back together into a picture that makes sense, except the pieces don't fit and most of them are missing. Or, James remembers children.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I pulled from my old AO3 account. Hope you enjoy!

       James is filled with little flashes of memory. A bit of sunlight in the shadowy corner of a restaurant in New York that was shut down long ago, right where a bench should be. Where it _used_ to be. The intimidating _cli-click_ of heels clicking against the hardwood floor of an old library, when the only sounds to be heard are the occasional rustle of a page in a book and the indistinct sound of a conversation between two people who are trying very hard not to be too loud. The sickening sound of a nose breaking under a fist between two houses, even though that encounter was far before the big, blonde man was just as big as his personality.

       So he shouldn’t be surprised that blonde ringlets atop a head cause his chest to pang. He shouldn’t be confused when high, joyful laughter rings in his ears in the dead of night, when there is no one around capable of such sounds. There should be no puzzlement when his fingers twitch over his knees, the muscle memory of patching up a scrape coming back, only to leave him a second later.

       But James _is_ confused. Very. He doesn’t remember children. Not really. Not that many, other than his siblings, but none of them had red hair, or curly blonde locks, or dark, tight little curls. They were all straight, brunette hair and soft, lean meat.

       And it’s strange, sometimes, waking up to a face, a favorite color, a food that slips away just as quickly as it comes, and he _knows_ there’s something else.

       He is walking through the kitchen, pulling a small meal of leftover Chinese out of the fridge for lunch. It’s a little dry, but it’ll do.

       (“ _Do you think the rice they give us tastes like the kind they've got in...that one place -- Cheen?_ ”)

       James stops. Stares at the little box of fried rice with the vegetables in it. The kind Clint insists on getting because no one else makes it any better than that.

       (“ _It’s called China, and yes, it is similar._ ”)

       His face is blank; unreadable. He said that. Those words are on the tip of his tongue, and he waits for more, another tidbit of a life he doesn’t remember. It doesn’t come, but he holds onto the information he’s gotten, this time. He remembers the voice, high and trill and quiet, afraid of being heard, but too curious not to ask, and his own; gruff, to the point, not his own, not really, but more like him than he’s heard in some of his other memories. It is a triumph to continue remembering.

       Sometimes, the Tower becomes too stifling to stay there another moment, so he takes a walk. It’s midnight, but he doesn’t care -- he tells FRIDAY not to worry; he’ll be back in a bit. He just needs some fresh air. Three blocks down the road and he passes a nightclub --

       (Purple. Small hands, warm, soft, gentle on the Asset’s. She is quiet; mature.)

       He’s supposed to be crossing the street -- the sign has the little walking person lit up for him to go -- but he has to keep still for fear of the memory slipping away like sand between his fingers.

       (Red hair, kept long and in braids, or a bun. Soft, round cheeks. Big, green eyes.)

       He closes his eyes, trusting his instincts and hearing to keep him out of danger.

       (“ _What is your name?_ ” The Asset doesn’t answer. The Asset doesn’t know. “ _What were you called before you came here?_ ”)

       A car honks as it passes by. His ears prick up, trying to catch more bits of a conversation held years before, but the words have died down. The volume is off. The mouth moves, but he cannot hear. His mind gives him no more of the memory. He returns to the Tower quickly. His outing will eventually go noticed by someone, if he isn’t back soon.

       Eventually, he learns to cope. The memories come and go, whether he is paying attention or not. He works around them.

       It is movie night, again. The theme is Oldies. Arsenic and Old Lace, and the Thin Man series, specifically. He is nestled between Natasha and Sam on the floor. Natasha has deemed him a fantastic pillow, and his shoulder is occupied.

       (The child is asleep. The Asset carries her to the Room. The hair is black and curly and tickles the Asset’s nose. The Asset does not mind.)

       Sam has wedged a pillow between them as a comfortable buffer, since both of them have muscular parts and bones that wouldn’t fit together. Comfort is vital, Sam says, while watching a movie. Comfort and food. Steve sits on the couch with Wanda, and plays in Sam’s hair.

       (They watch as the Asset demonstrates how to shoot a gun. They do not flinch when the Asset shoots a target.)

       Pietro and Clint are settled on the ground before James and Natasha, Clint with his head lying on her thigh, and Pietro with an army of pillows braced against James’s shins. Bruce is perched on a comfortable chair by the couch near Natasha, a bucket of popcorn toted in his arms and Tony leaning between his legs, opening his mouth to signal Tony to plop a popcorn kernel into his mouth. Thor and Jane share a loveseat, snuggled underneath a big, fluffy duvet. Jane watches Thor, mostly. He is theatrical and dramatic about old movies and soap operas, and provides entertainment all on his own.

       (Guard dogs. Cold feet. The Asset patches up a hand. The hand is small. The Asset is careful.)

       The man on the screen -- Nick Charles -- is a sly man. James has a certain appreciation of him. He takes a while to reveal the murderer, so James tries to figure it out on his own. He takes a guess on the butler, since he was the only one not to be a police suspect. He turns out to be right, of course. He watches with smug relish as the man is beaten down and taken away by the cop.

       (Yelena. The blonde girl tells the Asset to call her this. The Asset does.)

       James stops before they put in the next movie and excuses himself hastily. No one asks him where he is going, and he leaves the communal living room quickly. He hears Natasha follow him. Her footsteps are not hushed or careful. She wants him to hear her.

       “There are three girls.” James says before she can ask, leaning against the wall, facing away from her. She stays comfortably behind him. “One’s blonde, one has red hair, and one has black hair. The blonde one’s name is Yelena. I don’t know the other names. They’re children. I don’t know them, but I remember them.”

       Natasha remains quiet for a moment.

       (The black haired girl offers the Asset something that is almost as dark as her skin. “ _Eat it_.” The Asset does. It is sweet. She smiles.)

       “Do you want to look at your files? Perhaps that will help.” She offers. James ponders it for a moment.

       “No. I don’t wanna know what’s in there, just yet.” He answers quietly. He can feel her nodding, though she is a few feet away. “I just -- I get them in flashes. Memories of them. Not even full pictures. The feeling of their hair. The fabric of their clothes. The callouses on their hands. They come to me at the weirdest times -- Nat, I _know_ I’ve met them before. I don’t know why it’s -- “

       Natasha’s hand is warm on his back. “It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. Do you want to finish the marathon, or are you done for the night?”

       James looks over his shoulder at her. Her red hair is curly, barely past her shoulders. Big, green eyes stare up at him.

       (The Asset braids the red hair of the child, obediently following the directions given. It is amateur, at best, but the red haired child looks at the braid and smiles at the Asset. She pats the top of the Asset’s head by means of thanks, as the Asset sometimes does to her.)

       “I’m done for the night.” He answers, quirking his mouth up in a little half-smile. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

       “No problem.” Natasha says as she retreats back to the living room.

       If he tries hard enough, James can imagine Natasha’s hair in little pigtails. Her big green eyes are still the same, but some of the softness has left her face. She’d been Natalia, back then. James smiles fondly.

       He turns to go to his room, and doesn’t search for the memory of lost children’s faces. They come to him all on their own.

       Yelena, with her sharp chin and pale, fair skin dotted with freckles, baby blue eyes that were a little too big for her face and a mouth that was too small. She’d grow into her big feet.

       Viktoriya, small and agile. Dark skin and darker hair, curly and wild. She was built to be curvy in adulthood. A flat nose, chubby cheeks, and full mouth made her cutesy, though her eyebrows were constantly raised in amusement.

       Natalia, with her red hair and soft cheeks. A pointed chin, a slim, narrow frame; she was willowy. Small smiles were granted to him, often when he took care of her. She had small hands, fragile looking.

       James remembers these little things. It is alright for him not to know it all, he knows, but suddenly he is impatient, waiting for the next round of memories to come strolling in. They were his little sisters, when he had none. The little light in his life full of darkness.

       He knows he won’t remember it all for a while; won’t remember their faces or names, what color hair they had, what their smiles look like, sometimes. It’s alright, he thinks; he has all the time in the world to remember, now. All the time he needs.

       (Viktoriya holds the Asset’s hand. It is dark out, and there are dangers to be found in these streets. Natalia and Yelena walk in silence in front of Viktoriya and the Asset. Viktoriya is scared of the dark, the Asset knows. It is a secret. The Asset holds her hand, even though the fear of something so trivial is frowned upon. The Asset finds that the Asset doesn’t care.)

       (The Asset thinks that there is something wrong. The Asset has no emotions. The Asset must get that checked out.)

       (The Asset is only the Asset. The Asset does not know why the girls call the Asset “ _James_.”)

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I pulled from my old, deleted AO3 account. I had to edit it, some, but I liked it pretty much the way it was. I figured I would start reposting some things that I actually enjoyed writing from Memories.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Tell me if there are any errors or if you notice a particular character being OOC!!!


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